PART NINETEEN:
DISclaimer: Grab yourself a sarsaparilla and a comfortable chair, but make sure you finish your drink before you read, or wait till you’re done. We’re having dinner at the Whispering Canyon Café. I wouldn’t eat while reading, either. I can’t be responsible for any choking injuries or damage to your computer. Don’t say I didn’t warn you!
As much as we’re enjoying our time at the Lodge, we need to eat dinner and be on our way if we’re going back to Epcot. It’s nearly five o’clock. We walk the L shaped hallway that takes us to the elevators and I glance down into the lobby. Whispering Canyon Café catches my eye and I notice only a few people seated inside. I hadn’t given Whispering Canyon a thought. We’re actually on our way to Roaring Fork, but if WCC is opening for dinner right now, we might be able to get in without an ADR since most people don’t eat dinner this early.
“Look,” I say to Lowell, tugging at his arm to slow him. I point across the lobby. “There’s hardly anyone at Whispering Canyon. I’m not sure we can get in without a reservation, but do you want to try?”
He pauses for a moment, considering. “Well, it will cost more than eating at Roaring Fork, but I could go for a big dinner, actually. We had so little for lunch.”
“Let’s see what they say, Cowboy.” I shoot him a grin and add playfully, “Maybe they can rustle us up a steak or some ribs on short notice. If not, we’ll just mosey on down to Roaking Fork and settle for the grub there.”
A smiling woman greets us as soon as we walk inside the restaurant. “Good evening. Two for dinner?”
“Yes, we don’t have a reservation. Is that okay?”
“Let me see what we have available,” she says, then turns to check a list. “Yes, I think we can seat you in a few minutes. We’ll call you when your table is ready.”
Apparently, arriving when the restaurant first opens is a good plan. I mentally file away this tip.
A few moments later, they call us to be seated. The woman leads us to our table. On the other side of the Continental Divide. I never knew this room existed. I’m not sure how many miles we walked from the main dining room, but my blisters are complaining, and it’s a wonder we weren’t attacked by rattlers. I sigh with disappointment as we sit. I have my doubts the chuck wagon can even find us here. They’ll find our bleached bones still propped in these chairs a month from now, our skeletal hands clutching unused forks.
We can’t see anything going on in the dining room and voices are barely audible. At any other restaurant I would assume they stuck us in this nook because we look like a couple of rowdy hooligans who need to be isolated from the more dignified clientele. But this is Whispering Canyon Café. Rowdy is the name of the game. Here, perhaps you’re isolated if you don’t look rowdy enough. The gigantic bouncing Tigger on Lowell’s T-shirt must make him look very austere and dignified. And my shirt with Pooh and the gang must brand me as a snobbish high-brow. Apparently they don’t remember our previous visit here, for lunch, when I favored the dining room with my ability to bark like a variety of dogs. But that’s another story.
It occurs to me that being subtle with the Cast Member at check-in didn’t get us anywhere, so maybe the direct approach is the way to go.
“Wow, “I blurt, “We’re sure far away from everything.”
The woman looks genuinely surprised at my outburst. “We usually put people back here who don’t have a reservation, especially couples who may like to sit where it is more quiet and private. Would you like to be in the main dining room?”
“Yes!” Lowell and I say in unison.
“I’ll see if I have a table available there.” She picks up the ticket that has our table number and other preprinted information and takes it with her. In a few minutes she returns with a different ticket and says, “Okay, right this way.” Lucky for her, because while she was gone I had flashes of her lying under our table, hog-tied and gagged, while we ate sandwiches at Roaring Fork.
This time our table is near the entrance. We have a good view of people as they come in, and will be able to see all the shenanigans that Whispering Canyon is noted for.
A young dark haired waiter brings us menus and sits down at the table as if he has known us all his life and is happy to see us. He cracks a few jokes, asks us about our day so far, then runs through the items on the menu. After listening to his recommendations I order: Grilled Pork Chops - with maple ancho glaze, Yukon Gold potatoes, cremini mushrooms, fennel and green beans. Lowell orders: Grilled Chicken Pasta -- penne and fresh vegetables tossed with Roasted Garlic Chipotle Cream Sauce. We decide to get the bottomless vanilla milkshakes to wash all this down. The waiter heads off to the kitchen to get our shakes.
Which is our cue to do what we normally do after ordering.
We always bow and say a prayer before meals. One good thing about the “silly people have more fun” mentality is that you learn not to worry what people think of you. This comes in handy for a variety of things, not all of them silly. If your faith isn’t strong enough to withstand a sideways look for giving thanks for your meal, it isn’t very strong. We generally pray silently, but sometimes when the kids are with us we say grace out loud. It depends on how busy/stuffy/loud the restaurant is. We try to keep the length and “tone” of the prayer somewhere between the comic version of, “Looks neat, looks sweet, thanks God, let’s eat,” and Lowell’s father’s version of, “Our Gracious and Eternal Heavenly Father who has so abundantly blessed our lives, and who has . . . (more speaking more speaking more speaking) and forgive us wherein we have sinned . . . (more speaking more speaking more speaking) and now strengthen our bodies with this food (more speaking more speaking more speaking), AMEN. At the close of this type of prayer, the kids have generally fallen face first into their mashed potatoes and we have to wake them and pick peas and corn out of their hair.
Risking a sideways look at a restaurant when you pray is one thing, but bowing in prayer at Whispering Canyon, is like walking with Daniel into the Lion’s Den. Or volunteering for a Roman Gladiator contest. For those of you who have never been to Whispering Canyon Café, it is noted for singling people out and making a public scene of them for the amusement of other restaurant guests. And it’s great fun. Especially when it’s happening to someone else. So as we reach across the table and clasp hands, it is with a sense of foreboding and doom, and I wonder briefly, as I picture us wearing martyr’s robes in heaven, if there will be any special reward for our sacrifice. Our eyes meet before we bow, communicating a silent message: “We have lived full and happy lives. Whatever happens next, I love you.”
And then we bow, and each says a silent prayer. I try not to hurry despite my fear, but it is hard to concentrate, and I’m afraid my prayer is a disjointed, nonsensical jumble of thanks for my food and requests for protection from being lassoed and hoisted to the ceiling, or made to ride a stick pony around the restaurant while reciting the Lord’s Prayer.
I think God heard and placed guardian angels around us, rendering us temporarily invisible. When Lowell and I look up, we see no evidence that any CMs noticed us, and activity in the restaurant continues undisturbed.
A steady stream of people arrive and are seated as we wait for our shakes. CMs stand chatting with various families, so much so that I wonder who actually waits on tables. Now and then, a CM shouts out where people are from, or makes silly comments.
Our shakes arrive in large canning jar style glasses. The CM tosses a handful of “sissy sticks” onto our table and says, “Drink up, Pardners!” then leaves to take other orders. The shakes are thick and enjoyable. Better than our dinners actually, which arrive a few moments later.
Lowell tries his meal and says, “Not bad, but not nearly as good as it sounded from the description.” I try a few bites of his pasta and agree. His dinner is underwhelming.
Now I sample my own. Or at least I attempt to. The pork chops are nicely seasoned, but I think a cowboy cooked them over his campfire, then carried them across the badlands in his saddle bag for a month. In fact, I think he may have dragged them behind his horse for the last few miles. They are as dry as a walk across the desert with no canteen, and about as tough as an armadillo shell. Fortunately I have a very sharp knife, and this is a restaurant where I don’t need to worry about being dignified. If need be, I can put the plate on the floor, hold the chops with my foot, and use both hands on the knife.
The waiter comes back and asks about our meals, but Lowell can’t answer because he is sucking down his milkshake and has brain freeze, and I have a chunk of desiccated pork in my mouth and can’t stop chewing. The piece is almost pliable enough to swallow, and I don’t want to miss my chance. So the best I can manage is something between a gurgle and a grunt, which is interpreted by the CM as rapturous satisfaction with our meals. He smiles and walks away.
I attack the pork jerky with new vigor and hack off a few narrow strips, then pile some potatoes and beans on top. If I eat everything together the other food should serve as a lubricant. I give my theory a try and it works reasonably well.
Even if I had found the nerve to complain about the food, I have a feeling I would live to regret it. The CM would surely make an object lesson out of me. Perhaps it would be like the famous “I need ketchup” gag where dozens of people throughout the restaurant bring the person who requested ketchup the bottles from their own tables. Yes, the CM might call for food, and people from dozens of tables would rush over carrying spare bits of half eaten steaks, partially gnawed chicken bones, soggy corn bread, or worse yet, more pork jerky. They’d toss their offerings onto my plate until the pile was so high I’d be lucky to see over it. Then the CM would say, “Eat up, Pardner. Leaving food on your plate is grounds for a horse whipping.” I shudder and concentrate on chewing, chewing, chewing. Epcot will be closed by the time I swallow the last of this pork.
Then I have a thought. What is the matter with me; why didn’t this occur to me before?
“Lowell, honey, darling, feel free to have some of my pork chops. I’ve hardly shared any of my meal with you.”
I spear a few pieces of his pasta with one hand while pushing my plate toward him with the other. His pasta isn’t great but at least I can chew it.
He cuts off a chunk of pork chop and I try not to laugh as he starts chewing. It’s a mean trick, and I hope he doesn’t have any loose fillings. Watching him reminds me of our cat chewing a piece of grizzle. He finally swallows and says, “Well, it tastes good, but. . . .”
“It’s tough,” I finish for him.
“Right. You don’t have to eat all of it.”
“I hope not,” I say, still worrying about the penalties for wasting food.
We are interrupted by a call for ketchup on the other side of the room. The CM who made the request stands beside the people who asked for the ketchup and waits for the inevitable gag to play out. Most WCC patrons know the drill, and CMs coach the new people on what to do. In a moment children carrying ketchup bottles descend like a swarm of locusts. Five bottles, ten bottles, twenty bottles fill all available space on the family’s table.
No sooner does the bedlam die down, when the call goes up for a pony race. A Cast Member encourages all children to come up to the hostess podium and get a stick pony to ride around the restaurant. Most of the children come forward, take a pony from the barrel, and the race begins. The adults twirl their napkins and cheer for the riders. The cheering is enthusiastic and loud, and I begin to wonder what this will sound like from inside our room, one floor above. I have a feeling the hourly trifecta at Wilderness Downs may be a problem.
Our waiter comes around again and since the milkshakes are bottomless, and they’re the best part of the meal, we indulge in a refill. While he’s gone I toy with the idea of a “salad man” variation, spelling out a message on my plate with diced-up pork chop: DRY: but decide not to press my luck. Our visit has been entertaining but personally uneventful, and I would like to keep it that way.
The waiter returns to see if we would like desert, but the milkshakes were desert enough. He leaves our bill. I would love to pull out a pouch of tiny gold nuggets, or at least a few silver dollars, and pay with money from the era, but I doubt the cashier would appreciate that interesting bit of authenticity.
I say to Lowell, “Well, Pardner, shall we pay the bill, or just try to shoot our way out of here?”
“Better pay the bill,” Lowell says grimly. “If you thought this meal was bad, imagine the food they’d bring us in the slammer!”
And "the thing which must not be mentioned"..........I actually heard the screeching music from Phycho when I scrolled down and saw the mug. 
I think the hair on the back of my neck was even roused a bit. 
I stumbled across it today, and my face hurts from laughing so much. I can't wait to "experience" the rest of your vacation! 
Princess Tinkerbell Hey, another new reader! Welcome!!! While I am generally not happy about causing anyone pain, I’ll make an exception for making your face hurt from laughing. The next episode will be up in a couple days, and I predict you’ll need an aspirin or at least a good facial massage after this one. 
, but I'm pretty sure she will 
